


Confessions of a Dunmer's Fan Girl

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Glorious Milk Drinker [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Awkward Crush, Diary/Journal, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, F/M, Mentor/Protégé, Sanguine's Quest, Training, Whiterun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A timid milk drinker named Sveta has been taken in by Tilma the Haggard to lend her a hand at the Companions' mead hall. She is keeping a journal to record her daily (mis)adventures, marvelling to herself at the twists and turns her fate takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions of a Dunmer's Fan Girl

Dear diary,  
  
I still can't believe my own luck! I have to pinch myself every now and then to check that I'm not dreaming. A serving girl in Jorvaskr! Sweeping the rooms of the Companions, fetching them their mead, listening in on the stories they tell one another! Sometimes, even running errands for them! If only Father could see me now... If only I could prove to him, and to Mother, that even pathetic little milk-drinkers like me may actually be good for something...  
  
Have to run; Tilma is calling me to help her wash up after the Circle's meal. Maybe I'll see one of them up close... Last week Aela the Huntress actually spoke to me; she said, 'Out of my way, whelp!'  
  
..By Shor, what have I done to deserve this honour?  
  
  
  
Dear diary,  
  
I am writing here because I can't sleep. I haven't been able to sleep for the past few days. Or to eat, either. I don't know what to do with myself. I can't focus on my work; I've become clumsy and sloppy, and even Tilma, who has always been so kind, sometimes gets upset with me. She actually raised her voice yesterday when I started washing a mug that still had mead in it, and Njada got her drink mixed in with soapy water...  
  
What's wrong with me? Maybe I'm sick? I tried to go and see the priestess at My Lady Kynareth's Temple, but she seemed so busy: this terrible, terrible war leaves so many wounded, and hungry, and scared, and  everyone comes to the priestess and her apprentices for healing and comfort... I watched her from the doorway for a while, tending to an injured soldier - and then I turned round and walked away, because my troubles are such a trifle compared to the suffering of those poor people, and it would have been awfully selfish of me to distract the healers. I thought about asking Mistress Arcadia the alchemist - she says she has cures for all ills... But I still owe her some money for the potion I bought to treat the cough of that poor little girl who spends all day out in the street, begging...  
  
Here it comes again. I wanted to write some more about the girl - but I can't concentrate. It's as if my head has been wrapped in cotton wool. The whole world around me - the streets of Whiterun, Jorvaskr, my daily chores - it all seems so far away... The only thing that's always close, really close, is _**his**_ face. You know who _**he**_ is, dear diary - you are a place for my thoughts, after all. And I can't write down _**his**_ name. I can't even say it - as much as think of saying it! - without clutching at my heart.  
  
I've just flipped back to the entry I made when I first started working here. I was so happy, so content to be a mere serving girl! Now I'm not. Now I wish, more and more often, that I wasn't such a miserable milk-drinker. That I wasn't afraid of the dark, or heights, or pain, or being yelled at... That I was a true Nord woman, of the kind they sing about in songs. That I could knock a man's teeth out with one punch, like Njada, or shoot a draugr in the heart while blindfolded, like Aela. Then, _**he**_ would notice me. _**He**_ would talk to me, smile at me, wait for me to laugh after telling a joke. Then, I would matter; I would not be the invisible hand that puts the food on the table.  
  
Why, dear diary, why do I have to be me? And why does _**he**_ have to be _**him**_? Why does _**he**_ have to have that handsome elven face, those ruby eyes, that raspy voice that makes me go numb every time I hear it? Why does _**he**_ have to haunt me? Why does _**he**_ have to make me have dreams that spill a flush over my face and chest when I wake up?.. When _**he**_ will obviously never know that I exist.  
  
  
  
Dear diary,  
  
As I am writing this, I watch my hand in blank disbelief. Is it really my hand? Is it really me, crouching on top of my straw bed, scribbling away with a broken, half-chewed quill? And has it really happened - what I'm going to write about? Gods, once again... Once again I can't figure out if I'm awake or dreaming. This way, I'm afraid I'll get used to good luck. Which will be a bad thing, because milk-drinkers aren't supposed to be so blessed.  
  
It all began when I felt I'd vomit if I made another swing with my broom - so I tossed it on the floor and sneaked off into the back courtyard. I knew _**he**_ 'd be training there, with _**his**_ friend Torvar. Torvar is a Nord - oh my, looks like I still can't bring myself to call the Nords my 'kinsmen'. I remember, only too well, one of the many lessons Father has taught me. True sons and daughters of Skyrim are no kin to the likes of me...  
  
Well, anyway. Like most Nords, Torvar likes to fight with hammers and axes, and _**he**_ , in _**his**_ own words, prefers the smaller, quicker blades... I was so close to them when _**he**_  said that, making my way among the chairs with a tray... I almost swooned at the sound of that voice, so loud in my ear, and my heart almost leaped out and mixed with the meat roast I was serving. Great. Now I've made myself sick.  
  
Well, _**he**_ and Torvar usually spend most of the afternoon sparring, each trying to prove his point. Sometimes I get to catch a glimpse them, and sometimes, like on this insane, dream-like day, I go and watch them on purpose.  
  
This afternoon, _**he**_ lost to Torvar after the very first round, failing to keep up his block long enough to break his downswing... Oh, look at me, using all that warrior jargon. Forgetting my place...  
  
I was so worried when I saw _**him**_ drop to _**his**_ knees and wave _**his**_ hands at Torvar to signal a time-out. _**he**_ had never given in before. _**He**_ had always been too fast for _**his**_ Nord friend, circling round him, each of _**his**_ strikes so swift, so precise, like a serpent's sting.  
  
My eyes filled with tears and I raised my hands to my mouth, my head buzzing with anxious thoughts. _**He**_ was too hard on _**himself**_. Straining _**his**_ body with all that endless training, wearing _**himself**_ out while doing contracts. Not eating enough.  
  
And then - it hit me. I decided to creep into the living quarters on the sly, and place some food on _**his**_ nightstand. Rye bread and ham and goat cheese, and carrots. I don't know why I was so determined to leave _**him**_ some carrots... It seems so ridiculous now. Maybe because they're my favourite food, and I was hoping _**he**_ 'd like them as much as I always do? Or because this was supposed to be my way of giving _**him**_ an 'eat your veggies and you'll grow big and strong' lecture - like a mother to a child? By Kynareth, when I look back on this crazy idea it makes me want to curl up and cry... I was such a fool. I am so ashamed of myself...  
  
But what is done is done. I rushed to the market and bought some meat from Anoriath and lots and lots of carrots from Carlotta... I was so consumed by this pathetic little plan of mine that I did not stammer when talking to the merchants, not once. And I whizzed back to Jorvaskr so fast that I might as well have had wings behind my back. Breathless, heart pounding, I made my way to the room where most of the Companions slept, and laid out the food I had brought in my apron on the chest of drawers next to _**his**_ bed... I knew which one was _**his**_ because once, while making it, I had found a few long, coarse, copper-coloured hairs on the pillow. _**His**_ hairs... I remember standing over the bed for a few minutes, imagining _**him**_ in it, fast asleep, eyelids fluttering over _**his**_ crimson eyes... perhaps muttering something under _**his**_ breath...  
  
I was just about to leave when _**he**_ and Torvar walked in on me. The big Nord grinned at me and slapped me on the shoulder as a greeting; but _**he**_ said nothing, _**his**_ blazing eyes fixed on me. _**He**_ had never looked at me so intently, or for so long. I felt elated, ready to faint with happiness - and at the same time, mortally terrified. Because _**he**_ was definitely angry.  
  
'What are you doing here, sneaking around behind our backs?' _**he**_ asked at length; _**his**_ low voice made a lump rise up my throat and my head swim. 'Have you been going through our things? Well, girl, say something!'  
  
That was when I started crying. As I often do when I am at a loss. When someone raises their voice at me. When I am overwhelmed with emotion... And I _was_ overwhelmed - _**he**_ had addressed me directly! _**He**_ had acknowledged that I was a person, and not just part of the furniture... By the Divines, I am so pathetic!  
  
I bawled loudly, uncontrollably, like a small child... The two men stared at me blankly, and the longer they stared, the more I hated myself for being such a miserable fool - and the more I cried.  
  
Thank the gods for dear Tilma. She arrived just in time to save me from any more humiliation. She thrust a tray laden with food into my hands and wiped the tears off my face and said,  
  
'Now-now, Sveta dear, whatever it is (I will leave a blank here because, while she pronounced _**his**_ name so freely, so naturally, I still can't write it down) ______ and Torvar got you so upset about, I'll sort it out. You run along and bring the old man his supper. He has been in his quarters all day, talking with Vilkas. Now I'm sure all that Harbingering is very important, but a man has to eat!'  
  
I blushed at her last words, as they echoed my own thoughts so precisely...  
  
'Y-yes Tilma,' I hiccupped, and stumbled off.  
  
As I was walking down the corridor that lead to the Circle's quarters, I heard Tilma say gently, apparently addressing _**him**_ ,  
  
'This is what she's been here for; she's brought you something to eat! Now you go easy on her - none of that Dark Elf temper nonsense! The child _adores_ you, and if you are too harsh, it will break her poor little heart!'  
  
I remember my heart turning all cold and clammy. Tilma had found a word for how I felt; I had not realized it was so obvious... I longed to linger and listen what _**he**_ would reply to her - but I could not. It would have been unthinkable to keep the Harbinger waiting.  
  
  
I had only seen the great Kodlak Whitemane once or twice before, and when I got to his room, I froze in the doorway, awestruck.  
  
The Harbinger was still talking to Vilkas. Of the two twins from the Circle, Vilkas has to be the one that terrifies me more. Farkas has actually been friendly to me - if you can be friendly to a shadow...  
  
They must have been discussing some Circle affairs; I could not understand what, exactly.... I was too dazed by being in the presence of two of the mightiest Companions at once. All I could catch through the thumping in my ears was something about blood and beasts.  
  
Finally, the Harbinger noticed me and, smiling, in a tender, almost fatherly way (just a figure of speech; Father never would have stooped to smiling at me), beckoned me to come closer. I trotted up to him obediently, set the tray down on the small table in front of him - and swayed a little, for he had laid his heavy, warm hand on my shoulder.  
  
'There is a light in your eyes, child,' he said slowly; his voice sounded like the distant rumble of a waterfall. 'I can sense a certain strength of spirit... I think you will make a worthy Companion'.  
  
I don't remember if I actually screamed; I surely felt like it. This was too much. _Me, a worthy Companion?_ That was like calling snow black! I was half-prepared to believe that this was some sort of cruel prank, like the ones my peers would play on me when I was a child; but the Harbinger's gaze was sincere and earnest... If not a prank, then a mistake... Like when the Greybeards, for some bizarre reason, summoned me to High Hrothgar.  
  
Vilkas seemed to agree with me wholeheartedly.  
  
'But Master!' he cried out, waving his hand in my direction. 'She is a _servant!_ She fetches the mead!'  
  
'I am nobody's master,' the Harbinger replied sternly; and every word of what he said next is still burned into my heart... Even though I know this can't have anything to do with me.  
  
'I am nobody's master - and this girl is nobody's servant, not if she so chooses. Sometimes the famous come to us, sometimes men and women come to us to become famous. It doesn't matter; last time I checked, we had empty beds in Jorvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts'.  
  
Vilkas grumbled something, still not convinced (I was not convinced either). The Harbinger narrowed his eyes, which twinkled like crescent moons, and added, with the same fatherly smile,  
  
'Instead of brooding like a Falmer over a fish, why don't you take the child out into the courtyard and test her mettle?'  
  
  
What followed is one huge, huge blur. I was ushered back along the corridor, then upstairs, then out into the evening chill. I was given a few weapons to choose from - and stuck with a tiny dagger, because all the other blades and axes and maces were too heavy for me to lift (I am not even talking about two-handed weapons; I felt my spine crack just by looking at them). And then, Vilkas charged at me. His eyes burning like two white flames against his dark warpaint. His greatsword glinting red in the the glow of the torches lit for the evening, as if already splattered with blood... _lifted up high, ready to come swooshing down, to cut me in two with a line so fine that for a few minutes, I would not realize I was dead, still walking around a little before falling apart..._  
  
I shrieked in terror and leapt aside, barely avoiding the horrible blade. The metal grazed the ground with a small shower of sparks. Vilkas jerked the greatsword up and began another swing. And again, I dashed back before the blade could slice me into pieces. And again, and again, and again. Until a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out of the shadows of the mead hall's terrace, and a rough voice, which, with a leap of my heart, I recognized as the mighty Skjor's, said,  
  
'I think that's enough. You two whelps have worn each other out'.  
  
Vilkas shrugged, sheathed his greatsword, and walked back indoors, without saying a word to me. As he brushed past me, I could almost see the dark clouds swirling round his head; he was still seething over the Harbinger's decision. Can't say I blame him.  
  
Skjor walked over to me, arms folded on his chest, measuring me up with his only eye. My blush was so intense I had to clap my hands against my cheeks.  
  
'You have mighty fine reflexes, girl,' the legendary Companion said, smirking - I think he found my flustered expression amusing... 'But it's pretty obvious you've never held a blade before in your life. What you need is training. Lots and lots of training. I think we'll assign you as an apprentice to some Shield Sibling who's skilled in one-handed combat. Then, we'll see if you are true Companion material'.  
  
And so it is... Today - or rather yesterday; it will be cockcrow soon - I woke up a humble serving girl. I am going to bed the newest member of the Companions. Or maybe, I won't go to bed... What if I fall asleep and wake up and find out that it has all been a dream, after all?..  
  
  
  
Dear diary,  
  
Once again, I writing because I've been awake all night and it's rather pointless to try to doze off an hour before dawn, when I'm supposed to wake up.  
  
My body is aching all over. My bones have turned to melted wax. The palms of my hands are blistered and sore; I can barely hold my quill. My blood is pulsing dully to the rhythm I've been living to for the past few weeks. _Swing. Thrust. Block. Recoil._ When I close my eyes, I can see the training dummy, leering at me maliciously, mocking my weakness, my complete inability to get even the simplest move right.  
  
What was I thinking?! Why didn't I stop the Harbinger, why didn't I tell him he was wrong about me?! How could I let Skjor and the others drag me into this?! I was so happy fetching the mead; this was my place; what in Oblivion made me step out of boundaries?!  
  
I will never be a decent warrior. I am the laughing stock of the whole mead hall. That thing I heard Njada say about me... It still makes my ears flare up and my eyes sting. And worst of all, I am constantly disappointing my mentor. I am disappointing _**him**_.  
  
I felt ecstatic when I learned that _**he**_ was the Shield Sibling chosen by the Circle to teach me one-handed combat. Not for long. So far, every day has been completely and utterly miserable. I mess up exercise after exercise, making _**him**_ lose _**his**_ temper, and tear the sword out of my hands, and spit on the ground, and shower me with curses in _**his**_ native tongue. It is torture, seeing _**his**_ eyes burn with blood-red rage, _**his**_ lips twist in a scowl of contempt... It is agony.  
  
I know! Dear diary, I have made a decision; when the sun rises and _**he**_ comes to drag me out of bed and into the courtyard, I will tell _**him**_ I quit. I will, once and for all, relieve _**him**_ of the burden of teaching a _stupid n'wah that cannot tell the hilt of a dagger from the pointy end..._ and spare myself from the pain of seeing anger where I am secretly - utterly in vain! - hoping to find compassion... affection even.  
  
But... will I be able to do it? Will I pluck up enough courage? During our training sessions, I have hardly spoken to _**him**_ ; when _**his**_ eyes are on me, when _**his**_ voice is enveloping my mind, my throat grows parched, and I cannot squeeze out any sentence longer than, 'Yes, serah...' (I have read in books that this is the traditional Dunmeri form of address and use it constantly - a futile attempt to butter _**him**_ up after yet another mishap).  
  
Perhaps if I practice writing and saying _**his**_ name? Maybe this will give me enough strength to approach _**him**_? Well, here goes.  
  
Athis. **Athis.** ATHIS. _Athis, Athis, Athis!_ Athis. AtHiS. AthisAthisAthisAthis. ATHIS!!! Athis...  
  
Oh my. I do think it has worked. It has worked well. Much too well. Now I don't think I'll be quitting. Not yet. I will go out there, and try even harder. I will do everything to make hi... To make Athis proud of me.  
  
  
  
Dear diary,  
  
So much has happened tonight. And I am afraid there is much, much more in store...  
  
I had kept true to the word I gave in the previous entry. For four days, I had been tying myself into knots, straining my muscles till the effort brought tears to my eyes, striking at the dummy as if it was my sworn enemy (well, actually, it _is_ my sworn enemy...). And in the late afternoon of the fourth day, Athis raised his eyebrows, the deep lines of his face smoothening out, the left corner of his upper lip sliding up, and said,  
  
'Well done, Scrib!'  
  
Scrib is what Athis calls me; apparently, it is some sort of native Morrowind creature - 'Just like you: small, pale and annoying'. But this time, there was no disdain in his voice when he addressed me by that nickname.  
  
The unexpected praise of my mentor came like a thunderbolt; my knees wobbled, and I sank to the ground, clutching my heart. This was more than anything I could have hoped for!  
  
Just as Athis stunned me with his 'Well done', Torvar happened to be passing by. He has always taken my side, jokingly telling his friend not to push me around like an empty mead bottle - a show of kindness completely undeserved by my miserable little self. Hearing Athis praise me, he stopped, his legs wide apart, placed his hands on his hips and called out,  
  
'Ho, friend! So you aren't tearing the poor kid's throat out! This calls for a celebration!'  
  
And before either of us could say a word, he came up to us, grabbed each of us by the hand and dragged us off to the Bannered Mare.  
  
The inn was empty when we arrived; most of the regulars still had to be working in the market or on the farms around the city. Empty save for one man, red-faced and dark-haired, rocking back and forth on a stool in front of the bar counter and attempting to flirt with Hulda the innkeeper. When we came closer, he turned towards us, with a sly wink that made me blush.  
  
'Hey there you three! How about a friendly drinking contest to win a staff?'  
  
Torvar rubbed his hands gleefully. I know that it's very out of place for me to say so, but it's always seemed to me that he wields a mug almost better than he wields a sword. Athis looked doubtful; I have seldom seen him drink, and I know he does not approve of his friend's frequent visits to the meadery - but Torvar tugged at his hand, with a loud, 'Come on, friend, it will be fun!', making him sit down. I sat, too, and as soon as I did, the stranger snapped his fingers, and on the counter, in front of each of us, there appeared four mugs of dark, steaming liquid.  
  
'I'm warning you,' the stranger said with a broad grin, 'This is a special brew, very strong stuff'.  
  
As a milk-drinker, I have many vices. You know this, dear diary. Being unable to stand the smell of alcohol is one of them. I could not as much as lift my mug to my lips; one sniff of the whirling vapour that was rising from it was enough to make me turn away, retching. As for the three men, they did not as much as flinch as they threw their heads back and gulped down the dark brew. Though Athis did shake his head from side to side as he set down his mug, and blink and say, his voice a little slurred,  
  
'I... I think I hit my limit'.  
  
I suppose Torvar and the stranger went on drinking; I could hear some glugging and belching and splattering... But I did not pay too much attention to them, too preoccupied with watching Athis. I could see his eyes grow dim and unfocused, and a deep purple flush spread all across his face, and I felt terrified. My father had always been a violent drunk, and, what with Athis' temper, I feared that he might turn out the same. I slowly lifted my hand to my face, ready to shield myself in he struck me - and then, he smiled. For the first time since we met, he smiled at me. True, dear diary, it was a dizzy, vague, wandering, drunken smile, but a smile nonetheless. And seeing it made my whole body throb with the drum-like echo of my heartbeat.  
  
'Hey Scrib,' Athis said hoarsely, shifting closer to me, 'Why... Why is there three of you?'  
  
And before I could reply, he went on,  
  
'It's a good thing though... Because you know what?'  
  
I gasped at him, petrified, as he cupped his hand at the side of his mouth and whispered loudly,  
  
'You are very pretty'.  
  
I tried to restrain myself, dear diary, I really did. I repeated, over and over, in my mind, that this was the liquor talking, that Athis was not thinking straight - that if he was his usual self, he would never, ever have considered me pretty... But I could not fight back my tears. Hot, happy tears... Tears of disbelief and silent gratitude. Athis interpreted them differently, though. He reached out to me, his fingers hovering in front of my face - I figured he was trying to brush the tears off my cheek but found it hard to control his movements - and muttered thickly,  
  
'I know you're afraid of me... I have been acting like a fetcher - but please... Please under... understand... I am not very patient, and up till today you've been a lousy apprentice... Also... it's a lot of effort, hiding that I'm... at... attracted to you...'  
  
For a moment, I might as well have been as drunk as Athis. The inn spun round and round me, and my feet and fingertips went numb. When I came to my senses, Athis was fast asleep, head down on the counter, and Torvar and the stranger were gone.  
  
I could not return to Jorvaskr; I was sure the Circle would skin me alive if they learned what had happened - and Hulda declared that her regulars would be arriving soon and that she would not have them tripping over some 'senseless drunk' (oh, if only I could have overcome my stammer and stood up for Athis!). So, I placed the little gold I had on me down on the counter, and the innkeeper allowed me to rent a room. The local bard and the Redguard woman that worked in the kitchen helped me carry Athis upstairs. And here I am now, at his bedside. Scribbling in my journal - which I carry with me at all times - and waiting for any news of Torvar.  
  
I know that Athis will be having a horrible hangover when he wakes up, so I dared to loosen his ponytail (ah, he looks so utterly _gorgeous_ with his hair down!). Now he will have a bit less of a headache. He will still be angry, though. I can feel it. It has been several hours, and Torvar still has not come back... Athis will be beside himself when he learns what his friend has gotten into this time. And... And he will most likely forget what he told me before passing out. And so should I...


End file.
